


Strange

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And So Is Mycroft, Because Life Is Hard, Because Of The Kissing You See, Boners, Boys Kissing, Fluff, Halloween, Implied Body Dysmorphia, Kidlock, M/M, References To Boners, Teenlock, Tinier Bit Of Other Swearing, Tiny Bit Of British Swearing, Underaged Smoking, Wee bit of angst, mystrade, underaged drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halloween for the Holmes brothers yields treats for both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt based on the photo... but really I blame my writer friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                           

 

Sherlock was rather tall for a seven year-old, all gangly limbs and wild black curls to match his wild and gangly personality. He seemed to have two speeds; sonic and statue. Mycroft sometimes checked on his little brother a few times a night. He told himself it was to make sure he wasn't still awake, creating models of DNA strands with his Tinkertoys, or building armadas with his Leggos. However, the truth was, it was a habit carried over from Sherlock's infancy when he was born prematurely. Mycroft was the age Sherlock was now and managed to drag every large medical journal he could find in the study in order to research possible results of the condition. He actually just wanted to make sure Sherlock was still breathing. It made him feel ridiculous every time he did it, but feeling neglectful felt so much worse.

 

"What is that?" came the lisping, high-pitched accusatory voice from the door to his bedroom as he examined his appearance in his full length mirror. He'd managed to tame the Holmes curls, inherited from his paternal side, with a comb and strategic haircut. As much of a pain as they were, he was loathe to get rid of them. They were apparently a commodity, according to conversation he'd heard in the school hallway. The freckles of course, he could have done without. Sherlock had a smattering of cute moles but otherwise porcelain skin Mycroft would have paid a high price for.

 

"It's a suit, Sherlock," he replied with a sigh, tugging on the hem of the jacket. The charcoal with the silver pinstripes brought his eyes out, Mummy said when he'd tried it on. Paired with a crimson tie, he looked fit to run any board room. He'd long ago decided on three-piece suits as his attire outside of school and athletic activities. A good suit could hide many flaws, such as expanding guts and spreading thighs.

 

"I know it's a suit. I'm not stupid." Sherlock scrambled onto Mycroft's bed in the standard pirate costume Mummy and Father had made for him, complete with audacious gold-trimmed crimson coat and tricorne depicting the Jolly Roger. He'd had to adjust the wooden scimitar several times before he could sit properly.

 

"You are compared to me." That earned him a petulant tongue.

 

"You're supposed to be wearing a  _costume_! Not your regular boring old-"

 

"I'm the Prime Minister. How about that?" Sherlock glared at him, spindly arms nearly swimming in the coat crossed.

 

"That doesn't match a  _pirate_!" Mycroft lifted an eyebrow in an exact replica of Father when he'd wanted to scold them. Father hardly ever actually did, as Mummy did so enough for the both of their parents. It had pretty much the same effect, however. Sherlock scoffed and beckoned him closer, pushing himself to his feet.

 

"Sherlock, your shoes?"

 

"The quicker you come here, the quicker I'll get my shoes off your duvet." Mycroft worked out that the most diplomatic solution would be to just indulge his baby brother.  As always. Sherlock went into a little satchel he wore crosswise, extracting something with a black elastic on it. "Mummy told me not to put the patch on until I was going to the doors so I wouldn't lose depth perception," he explained, pronouncing the 'c' in perception exactly the same way as the 'th' in 'depth'. He worked the band around Mycroft's head, fitting the covering over first his right, then adjusting it over to his left eye before digging spidery fingers into his carefully styled hair and ruffling it, every last curl springing free. Mycroft could almost hear their victory cries and sneered. Sherlock nodded once in curt satisfaction. "Perfect expression."

 

"Get. down." With a last, long rebellious look, Sherlock went from his one mode to the other once more, jumping off the bed and gathering the sword he'd put aside in one hand, plastic Jack-O-Lantern candy collection bucket in the other. "Am I supposed to be some sort of Bond villain?" Sherlock halted at the door, little body framed by it dramatically.

 

"Who?"

 

"Never mind," he sighed again, taking one last glimpse at his, in his opinion, disheveled reflection, and let himself be lead out by the hand. He'd familiarized himself with all of the British based cultural institutions, popular or otherwise, knowing the information would prove useful despite whether or not he found them entertaining. After consuming all available material regarding James Bond, he'd begun outlining in his mind a similar position for himself in the future. Except he would delegate all of that...  _legwork_. He would learn it of course, but he wouldn't engage unless it was unavoidable.

 

"You're the Prime Minister who lost his eye in a pirate raid and now you've been taken prisoner and forced into slave labour. Obvious."

 

"Yes, of course."

 

 

***

It had all been agreed to by their parents. They took the usual route to their school neighbourhood, toward the Halloween celebration organized by a young woman in the area who going for her teaching certificate. There was a detailed map of all the buildings participating, and volunteers stationed at intervals in bright orange shirts, directing the families so that they circumnavigated to end up at a function held in the girl's home. It was rather clever, for an aspiring school teacher. Mycroft had already skipped several forms, himself. In fact, he didn't even need to go to secondary school at all, perhaps not even the first two years of university, but Mummy and Father insisted he learned how to socialize properly, a concept that was repeatedly lost on Sherlock, going by his discipline slips and school records. The only reason he stayed the longest at St. Michael's Academy For The Gifted, was because it was where Mycroft was, and Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not an expert negotiator with a specialty in Sherlockian studies. Besides, all of it padded his social as well as literal CV.

 

The fact that the aspiring school teacher's younger brother was in his form had almost nothing to do with why he lingered. Almost, but not quite. Mycroft found Greg Lestrade unreasonably attractive, yes, but he forced himself to lump the boy in with everyone else. It was a feat that became a bit easier every time Mycroft deduced his dalliances with various girls. Then he deduced one with a boy. At first, Mycroft wrote it off as experimentation, but then it happened again and, by the third time he'd worked it out, Greg's experiences with both sexes were almost balanced, and that fact sealed poor Mycroft's fate. It was ridiculous to say that Greg was all he thought about, but the boy did take up an inordinate amount of space in his mind. He would even attend Greg's football matches, even though he himself was more oriented toward things like fencing, rowing, cross country running(he had to do something to stave off the fat he saw coming).

But Mycroft kept him at the proverbial arm's length, practicing his tailing techniques, his poker face when listening in on Greg's conversations. He'd have to be excellent at surveillance for his future work. It absolutely wasn't stalking. 

 

They approached the house, each step coinciding with the pounding of his heart. He tried his best to control the rate, though how hard it beat seemed to be beyond his abilities. He busied himself pulling down the eye patch as of course the depth perception issue was apparent and he hadn't bothered to adjust to it for one unimportant night. A gaggle of children of varying ages stood patiently at the open front door beyond which an event of terrifically loud proportions was obviously taking place. 

 

It took everything Mycroft had not to stop walking when he spotted him; straight black hair greased and combed back with a few tendrils of fringe hanging over his forehead amd nearly into his eyes, stark white tee shirt clinging to a broad chest. His jeans were well worn but fit exquisitely. Black trainers matched his motorcycle jacket, which was probably making soft noises as he shifted to do... what _was_ he doing anyway? Mycroft did stop then, hand on Sherlock's shoulder as sharp blue eyes darted over the scenario. Sherlock was complaining, but all Mycroft told him was that he needed to be patient, as the last thing he wanted was to cause the one in charge of the candy to become disgruntled. Sherlock conceded and stayed put, wrenching his shoulder out of Mycroft's grasp to display how disgruntled  _he_  was. Mycroft secured his presence by taking control of the near-overflowing pumpkin bucket. Sherlock wouldn't dare go forward without knowing it was close behind.

 

Greg was grinning at the children, squatting to snap brightly coloured bands around their wrists and a matching one to their candy bags. He was writing their names on them with an indelible ink pen before adding to their hordes and standing to let them inside. He shut the door behind himself with a weary sigh that made Mycroft's heart go out to him further. What an extraordinary boy. What an extraordinary, marvelous, extremely attractive boy. Pushing a cigarette between those shapely lips and igniting it with one of those Zippo lighters, then taking a long drag and exhaling with his eyes closed, baring his throat, it didn't hurt the attractive bit at all. It in fact increased it exponentially. Advertisers spent billions each year attempting to get people to take up smoking despite the horrid side effects, but all they really had to do was film what Mycroft just saw. The world would be chain-smoking in no time once they'd witnessed that.

 

He wasn't usually caught off guard, but suddenly, deep, dark eyes were on his and he'd no idea how long he'd been staring. 

 

"Holmes!" Greg greeted as if he was an old friend instead of the creepy kid who stalked him around town. No. It wasn't stalking. Surveillance. Aaand now his brain decided to lose coherency as well. This was just tremendous. "Come out from the shadows, you creeper." Mycroft could do nothing but obey that voice. He still thought his own rather high in comparison, taking to lowering it significantly depending on what he wanted to get across. The ability seemed to abandon him at the moment, however, as he made his way up to the door, focusing on that depth perception issue so he'd have something to distract him from the ridiculous butterflies he always got whenever Greg acknowledged his immediate existence. He caught up to his little brother just as he reached the door.

 

"Ahoy!" Sherlock shouted, brandishing his weapon.

 

"Um... yes... Trick or treat," Mycroft said lamely, holding out the bucket. Greg only laughed, good-naturedly clapping him on the shoulder and blowing the smoke away from his face. What thoughtfulness. Greg set the cigarette in a bottle cap he was using for the purpose and didn't have to squat nearly as low to be eye to eye with Sherlock as he did with some of the others.

 

"I know you," Greg was saying lightly, pulling wristbands out and letting Sherlock choose a radioactive looking green pair before beginning to print 'William' on each.

 

"That's wrong!" Sherlock protested, jabbing a finger at what Greg was doing.

 

"What?"

 

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."

 

"That's not what all those discipline slips my sister tells me about say." Greg had schooled his features to something dour, but Sherlock poked out his chin in defiance.

 

"Those weren't all my fault! If I had an assistant then-"

 

"Then you would have burned down the entire school instead of just a lab station," Mycroft interceded. The rewarding toothy grin he received at that was to fuel his fantasies for weeks. Sherlock crossed his arms but wouldn't meet anyone's eyes, only retracting his plump bottom lip when a shiny new band in his preferred colour went around his tiny wrist with the correct name. Greg tossed a few small packets of candy into Sherlock's pumpkin and told him who to go to for safe storage as he opened the door for him. He took a last drag of his half-finished cigarette that had been burning down the whole time and made a show of digging through the massive candy bowl next to the impromptu bottle cap cigarette holder. First he held up a strawberry flavoured lolly nearly touching Mycroft's nose with it, shook his head and fished out a green one with which he did the same. Finally a blue raspberry one seemed to do the trick.

 

"That one matches," Greg smirked then pushed it into Mycroft's hand before taking his own and unwrapping it. Mycroft momentarily just gazed at the confection then, to be polite, unwrapped his as well. "Shall we go make sure the little bugger's settling in?" Mycroft could only nod stiffly, as his tongue suddenly became too big for his arid mouth watching Greg start on his candy. He refused to acknowledge the growth of anything else in a confined space and followed closely, noting that, even though Greg was three years his senior at seventeen, Mycroft was taller by almost three inches.

 

As expected, Sherlock had already managed to alienate the majority of the other children in the room. Mycroft didn't blame him, however. These children were vapid creatures and Sherlock was correct in not wanting to keep company with them. Now if he didn't look so dejected as he nibbled on an orange-iced fairy cake in a shadowed corner, the scenario would be complete. He sighed deeply, sorry to have to do this for his own sake, but a big brother's work was never done.

 

"I should really just take him home," Mycroft lamented. "Social gatherings at which the majority of the guests are children aren't his natural  _milieu_ , I'm afraid." Oh God did that sound as pretentious to Greg as it did to him? 

 

" _Arrete-toi_.Let's just see how this plays out." He was so busy trying to calm himself at the way the language rolled easily off of Greg's tongue(Of course. Lestrade.), that he didn't notice a small, yellow-haired boy dressed head to toe in camouflage approaching his brother. He was hyper-aware, however, of Greg's thick fingers pinching his sleeve in order to tug him toward a better position in which to hear what was happening.

 

"Why aren't you playing?" the blond was asking.

 

"Because they're idiots," came the completely correct reply.

 

"Oh." One could tell the boy was thinking hard about his next words as he fiddled with a toy hand gun that shot those brightly coloured suction cup darts. "I'm John Watson."

 

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock, trying his best to behave as disinterestedly as possible. He was failing.

 

"What sort of name is  _Sherlock_?" Little John was saying it as if it tasted funny.

 

"What sort of a name is John Watson?" 

 

"The sort of name that'll get you punched if you're not careful. I'm not supposed to fight people littler than me, or girls, but you're neither." How that little boy went from endearing to menacing was a feat that made Mycroft pay even closer attention, watching to see how Sherlock would handle the challenge from this John Watson. He was definitely smaller than his brother(most were), but he was two to three years older, working class, left handed, and at least forty to sixty percent Celtic, most likely Scottish. Sherlock rolled his eyes and held out the candy corn that garnished his fairy cake. Was that an apology? "Aw these are brilliant! Thanks!"

 

"I don't like them. You can have all of mine if you like when I get my candy back." The smaller child's eyes got impossibly wide, big enough for Mycroft to see that they were a deep blue.

 

"Great! Hey, I thought your name was William." For the first time, Sherlock looked hard at the boy, probably recognizing him from somewhere in the school halls.

 

"That's nearly as dull as 'John'."

 

"Why can't you be nice?"

 

"I am being nice. I didn't call  _you_  an idiot." John had to consider that for a moment. "Plus, I'm giving you my candy corn."

 

"I suppose. But you will call me an idiot eventually, I think."

 

"Then you can call me one."

 

"Deal." John stuck out his hand and grinned. Sherlock took it tentatively and John pumped it once before letting Sherlock return his to his pocket.

 

"Won't be true, but-" To both the Holmes brothers' utter surprise, John laughed aloud.

 

"Come on! I've been practicing," he grinned, showing Sherlock his pistol. "I bet I can hit just about any target." With that, John took off into the sea of little bodies, Sherlock hot on his heels despite his earlier attempts at apathy.

 

"See?" Greg smiled wide. "I'm going to need another fag and a drink. You want one?"

 

"I... Yes... Please." What was going  _on_  with him? This wasn't Mycroft Holmes. This was...  _Father_. Ardor sufficiently dampened for the moment at the idea of his rather bumbling paternal influence, he followed Greg back out to the now deserted front porch. Citing he'd be right back, Greg disappeared around the side of the house for a few minutes then returned with two orange plastic cups printed with Jack-O-Lantern faces. They sat side by side on a bench, the coolness of the wood barely seeping through his trousers. This suit wasn't wool like some of the others he had. But it all didn't matter, because the heat he was experiencing from being the focus of Greg Lestrade's attention at the moment was cancelling other things out. Mycroft took a sip of the beer and attempted to keep his face neutral. Apparently he'd failed because Greg laughed. That however, could also be counted as a win, as Greg's laugh was wonderful, rich and genuine.

 

"Sorry about that, Myc. I suppose you're used to fine wines and such." He absolutely  _hated_  the shortened version of his name. Unless it was being spoken by the rather perfect boy practically pressing his shoulder against his.

 

"I'm allowed a half glass on special occasions and sips of Father's whiskey when Mummy's attention is diverted. Sometimes she notices anyway, but she never says anything." That earned him another one of those delightful laughs as Greg pulled out another cigarette and lit it. Mycroft wordlessly refused when he was offered one, and was mildly surprised that it wasn't the end of the world. He also figured that he would soon start accepting on occasion.

 

"It's hard to believe you're younger than me. Sometimes you act like the man who runs the bank." Mycroft was absolutely still, trying to process whether or not that was a good thing. Apparently, Greg noticed enough to offer comforting clarification. "It's real sophisticated. It's wizard." He opened up a side of his motorcycle jacket and extracted a large metal flask which he unscrewed after clamping the cigarette gently between his teeth and poured a generous amount of its contents into each of their cups to mix with the beer. "We're going to have to get your tolerance up."

 

"Are we?" Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the smell, and tried to straighten his face in light of the enormously adorable smirk Greg had tossed at him.

 

"Yeah. All proper Bond villains have these decanters of expensive booze they're drinking from all the time." Sighing with an exasperation he didn't actually feel that deeply, Mycroft pushed the damn eye patch up and off of his head, wrapping the elastic neatly around it and slipping it into his inside pocket. "I was starting to think you were going to wear that thing all night. I like to look a man in the eye, but you seemed to have taken it seriously." Mycroft wrestled his chuckle into some semblance of dignity, taken aback by the fact that he and Greg were sharing; a laugh, a drink, a bench. It was almost as intoxicating as the liquor would no doubt make him if he didn't sip sparingly. But sip he did.  "The curls are a nice touch, though," Greg went on, taking another sensuous drag from his vice. "Never seen them out like that before.

 

"Ah. Yes. Well. They're something of a Holmes family trait as you can tell by my brother's mop."

 

"Get it from your father, do you? I've seen them at the school enough." Greg was full of surprises. The entire evening was, actually. Mycroft would be more unsure about it if he wasn't just so bemused about the whole thing. He took a large swallow of his drink and was proud of himself for not coughing.

 

"This is true," he finally answered, nearly unable to do so because of the way Greg was intently watching him, smoke curling lazily into the night air.

 

"Sherlock is a lucky kid. You look after him really well."

 

"It's my lot in life, I suppose."

 

"Yeah well, anyone with eyes can see you genuinely care about him."

 

"Sherlock was a bit of a... surprise for my parents. Also he was born prematurely. I suppose he was impatient even in the womb." He wasn't sure if it was a joke until Greg let out a chuckle. Also, why was he confessing all of his private thoughts? Why did he continue to do so? "That was only the first of many times his impatience put him in a life-threatening situation."

 

"Mm," Greg pondered, flicking his ash and taking a drink. "Well I think there's little he could get into in there."

 

"You don't know Sherlock very well."

 

"True, but if what little I know is anything to go on, he just gets bored more quickly because of those massive Holmes brains. I always see your name and photo all over the school. You're always winning those academic marathons and such. You're dead clever. It's cool. I can't help but think he's the same way. I mean he's in that John Watson's form and that kid's nine. I know Sherlock's only, what, seven?" Wait. He could understand knowing Sherlock, as the boy was rather infamous, but Greg  _knew who_ he _was_? It was almost too much for him to process, and that was saying a lot. Usually, Mycroft was easily dominating the conversation by now, but something about this particular situation made it so he could do little more than smile and nod. It was preposterous. He had to contribute something more than inane babbling.

 

"This function was organized well," he said, then frowned at his idiocy. 

 

"My sister inherited all of Mum's planning skills, I'm afraid. I just helped her work out the safety portions. Like, the map and off duty volunteers and that."

 

"The wristbands were your idea?" He forced an upward inflection in order to promote further conversation. He already knew Greg had come up with the plan.

 

"Yeah. I figured any little bit helps to keep the kids safe, right? One of the reasons this was put together in the first place." He actually blushed hard enough for Mycroft to see it in the shadows. It was one of the most charming sights ever. It didn't help with his desire to be a better conversationalist, but Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not persistent in his attempts at control. He went to his safe place, finally allowing himself to examine what he'd deduced about Greg. Father was a policeman killed in the line of duty and Greg was proud of him(should avoid mention of death and talk up pride). Mother worked the graveyard shift in a filter factory. That and her late husband's pension was enough to keep their home, but Greg had a job delivering pizzas most nights and contributed what he could to the household. Sister approximately four years older still lived at home in order to contribute as well but has a boyfriend she's serious about. Which was unfortunate because he was cheating on her(best not to mention that just now either).

 

"I think you'll make an excellent policeman," Mycroft settled on. "Your father would be proud." Greg examined him again, then blew out the last of his lungful and tamped out the last of his cigarette with an odd smile. Mycroft worried that he'd overstepped his bounds, but Greg just toasted him, lightly touching the rim of his cup to his, then drank again. It was of course already going to his head, though Greg seemed as composed as when he first saw him, if a bit more pensive. He was staring out at the somewhat busy street, arm flung across the back of the bench... behind Mycroft.

 

"I know what you're thinking." No. He didn't. Because unless he said something about that tiny sliver of skin showing as he scratched through the dark hairs of his treasure trail in the center of his muscular belly, he would be incorrect. "You're thinking, 'If he's going to be a copper, why is he going to a posh place like St. Michael's', right?" Mycroft realized almost to his horror that it had been one of the thousands of questions he had about Greg. He'd never dare ask that one, however. It would sound condescending, and if there was one thing he didn't do, it was look down on Greg Lestrade. Only figuratively of course, because that bit of skin, see...

 

"No, not really," Mycroft replied, without being concerned about lying. He really wasn't thinking about that question at the time he was asked. Those eyes snapped back to him, assessing him. It was interesting being on this side of it. He could understand why people found it unsettling because, despite his outward composure, he was rather unsettled. Just not in a bad way. With a poignant half smile Greg answered anyway.

 

"It comes down to the fact that I test well. Won a scholarship. Mum was so pleased I couldn't really disappoint her more by not going. I mean, she's none too pleased about my career goal of joining the force. I think she thinks I have a better chance of finding something I want to do more with a posh education. But that's just it. I've never wanted to do anything more in my life." Truth poured from his very bright soul as he gestured emphatically. The passion was nearly overwhelming. "Even before Papa... But I plan on rising in rank. I'll be a DI, maybe even Chief one day. Somewhere I can really make a difference you know?" God did he know. "I just... I hate to see Mum cry. She only does it when she thinks we don't know but I've heard her and seen her and it just... fuck, it just breaks my heart." Mycroft's heart was breaking  _for_  him, so he could only imagine how Greg felt. With a sniff and his face hidden by the shadows as he lowered his head to examine his trainers, he went on. "God, I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this."

 

"Because I'm listening." Mycroft was stunned by the naked look in his eyes when Greg raised his head. A shaft of light from the closest streetlamp splashed dramatically across them as if on purpose, setting the shiny unspent tears on fire. Then, his lips were there, pressed firmly but gently on Mycroft's. He pulled back slightly, to gauge his reaction. Mycroft had no idea what he saw there but thank God it was good because he resumed kissing him more confidently, cupping his jaw, licking the seam of his mouth with the very tip of his tongue. Mycroft could only react, parting his lips a bit to let it in, where it did things that made his breathing speed up through his nose. By the time it drew his tongue into Greg's mouth and was sucked on, Mycroft was embarrassingly hard and whimpering just a little. Greg tasted like everything teen-agers were warned against; alcohol and cigarettes and candy and perfection. Greg mercifully released him to lean back on the bench, arms wide at first, grinning at the rigid(in more ways than one)Mycroft. He then wrapped the nearest arm around his suit-clad shoulders and pulled him back into his embrace.

 

"Is that the first time you've done that?" Mycroft wasn't sure what to say. Everything sounded so feeble. He thought his brain wasn't working  _before_...

 

"At the risk of sounding juvenile... it is," the truth outed before he could control it.

 

"At all or just with a bloke?"

 

"At all."

 

"Wouldn't know it. That was gorgeous." Pride flooded every nook and cranny of Mycroft's body, oozing from his pores. He reveled in Greg's touch, staunchly feeling the fingertips tracing shapes on his arm.

 

The air of contradictory peaceful excitement was broken with piercing screams, causing both boys to leap to their feet and push inside the house as quickly as possible. Mycroft went immediately to fear for his brother's safety, then dread of what he may have done piled on top of it. Only when he heard the screeches interspersed with nigh uncontrollable high-pitched laughter did his mind finally settle on how his brother's safety would be in danger... from him. Because he knew it was Sherlock just as he knew Greg's eyes were the colour of warm black coffee with just the right amount of sugar.

 

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?!" Greg roared just as the few other people who were supposed to be monitoring things arrived at each of the two kitchen doors. Six pairs of extremely wide eyes looked up at him from under sodden fringe of various colours. The only thing that continued to move for a full five seconds was the geyser of cola bursting from two of the two liter sized bottles. They'd even stopped chewing the extra Mentos they hadn't used. Sitting on the table opposite each other and in the center of everything was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. After waiting another five seconds for a reply from those too stunned to do so(including the supposed adults), Greg began giving orders as he yanked the boys off the table and made the children in question line upon the more easily cleaned lino until the blankets were in place. His sister was to take two adults with her and gather all of the towels in the house. Another was sent to fetch two semi-clean blankets to spread on the floor just outside one of the kitchen doors. They were to dunk the towels in hot water then immediately begin wiping down sticky, wet children in the bathroom, both girls together first then all the boys together. Everyone jumped to comply, even though Greg could have been almost any one of their sons. Mycroft didn't miss the tiny whisper of a little yellow-haired boy to his taller black-haired companion.

 

"I'm going to learn how to give orders like that when I'm in the Army."

 

Greg then stormed off and returned moments later with a with a large box and a booklet of some sort. He dropped the box with a noise that was loud even on the rug, then pawed through it to pull out two kitchen sized bin liners, two large volunteer shirts and two pairs of child-sized socks. which he handed his sister as they were making their way into the bathroom. Then he got out the same supplies for the four boys left and pushed them into the hands of the only other male there besides Mycroft. He then opened the booklet and scribbled something that was probably his name several times, once on each page, as he muttered curses under his breath. Those, apparently discount certificates to a relative's laundry service business, he doled out to the parents of the unfortunate few when they came to pick up their children, explaining that a science experiment went awry but the children had a lovely time. Every last one grinned and said that it wasn't real fun if the kids didn't make a bit of a mess of themselves, apologised for leaving the mess(though not sorry they didn't have to clean it up), and took their little darlings home for a proper bath. The adults left were charged with cleaning the kitchen spotless before they left as they were the ones remiss in their duties if this was allowed to happen when the very nature of their job was to supervise the children.

 

"No reason to get Sherlock in more trouble," Greg murmured in explanation, hands stuffed(somehow)into his jeans pockets as he saw the last of the children off so that there was only John and Sherlock left, and as the ringleaders, they were conscripted into helping clean. "I think at least all the others learned their lesson enough that there was no reason to get them in more trouble either." Mycroft had literally no idea what to do. Was he allowed to touch Greg's shoulder? Or were they at a point where he could throw his arms around him and kiss him soundly.

 

"My deepest apologies for-" Mycroft could say no more, as Greg grabbed him by the back of the neck to kiss him firmly. 

 

"You're okay, Myc," he said gently, with a brief squeeze where he held him before releasing him just as the boys emerged from the kitchen.

 

"March, mister!" John was commanding in a tone of voice that almost perfectly mimicked his mother's. Once more, to Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock was obeying. Barely. John stood by his side, his pose of hands behind the back more of an at-ease position than Sherlock's(again surprisingly)more contrite one. Their shirts glared orange and green, shouting 'VOLUNTEER' in a bold black font as they positively engulfed the two little boys. After a moment of silence in which Mycroft was wondering what would happen next, John sharply elbowed his new friend.

 

"I'm  _sorry_!  _Cor_!" yelped the dark-haired of the two, with a pointed glare for John as he rubbed his assaulted ribs.

 

"You're sorry fooor...?" John prompted.

 

"That we got caught," Sherlock deadpanned before they both nearly lost it to mirth. Mycroft knew the feeling and a quick glance over at his new  _boyfriend_ (?)displayed identical barely contained laughter.

 

"That's  _not_  how you do it, Sherlock!"

 

"Not good?"

 

"A bit not good, yeah." John said. "You do it like this." John then began rocking back and forth on socked feet looking off into the air as if trying to remember lines. In a way, he was. "Mister Lestrade, we're very sorry we messed up your kitchen and we promise not to try anything like that again."

 

"Without permission," Sherlock added, repeatedly looking over at John for body language cues to emulate.

 

"Well if you're  _really_  sorry, you can come up with your own punishment," Greg declared, crossing his lovely arms, bare now that he'd shed his jacket in favour of taking charge. The whinging started right away, but halted just as quickly with the cock of one of Mycroft's eyebrows. He must have looked more like Mummy that time. Both of Greg's rose in response. "You've got to teach me that, Myc."

 

" _Myc_?" Sherlock spat. "You'd only let someone you want to snog call you... Oh no! Are you snogging  _him_?"

 

"Boys snog?" John asked incredulously. This was doubly awful. There was no telling what Sherlock would do or say and he wasn't prepared to explain homosexuality to someone else's child who clearly didn't know about it, even in this day and age. "I thought it was only girls."

 

"Wait, what?" Greg seemed to be doing the same thing he was, just holding on for all he was worth as he was taken for the roller coaster ride that was this whole ordeal. 

 

"One time," John sniffed casually and wiped his nose, "I found my Da's journals he was hiding under the bed when I was playing hide and go seek with my little sister, and it was full of pictures of women snogging." He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner and leaned closer to Sherlock's ear. "But they were all naked." Sherlock's eyes became roughly the size of saucers before the two boys both fell apart with laughter. Just as quickly, Sherlock sobered then pulled a disgusted face.

 

"Ugh. You don't snog naked, do you?" he asked.

 

"For god's sake, Sherlock, I'm not answering that!" Mycroft thought his head would burst into flames at the notion.

 

"You're cute when you blush," Greg mentioned, not making the redness abate in the least and pulling gagging noises from the children.

 

"John, where are your parents?" Sherlock asked as if he'd just thought of it. It was curious he wasn't picked up yet. Everyone else had already gone.

 

"Da's off over in Iraq and Mum works at the same place Mrs. Lestrade works. She had to work extra this week and since Miss Lestrade used to mind me all the time she offered to watch me tonight. I'm staying over." Before Sherlock could finish drawing breath Mycroft cut him off.

 

"Oh, no! After what you did? You shan't be rewarded with a slumber party."

 

" _Please_ , Mycroft! We'll behave! We promise! John tell him we promise. He'll believe you."

 

"Yeah we'll be good!" Mycroft and Greg exchanged a look before they turned their backs to the boys and spoke in harsh whispers.

 

"We haven't any overnight things," Mycroft admitted.

 

"I have basic toiletries and something you can sleep in." Mycroft looked around the room as if he could find the words to properly express his hopes and fears somewhere around him. As was the theme, Greg knew what his issue was. "Look, you're hot as hell, don't get me wrong, but we will do absolutely nothing you're uncomfortable with. We have all the time in the world." Mycroft nearly wept with relief when he saw no lie in Greg's form.

 

"We... can't give in so easily with those two."

 

"Agreed. They still have to come up with a suitable punishment."

 

"Right." 

 

They crossed their arms in similar poses and spun back to face the partners in crime who had donned their most endearingly pleading faces. Sherlock's lip was even trembling a bit.

 

"Oh that's a nice touch," Greg mentioned in reference to it. 

 

"Well?" Mycroft prompted. "Your punishment?" Their affected moues faltered a bit as they looked at each other. Sherlock only nodded, trusting in John's negotiation skills.

 

Dreaming.

 

Mycroft figured he had to be dreaming. It was the only explanation for a compliant Sherlock and a beautiful boyfriend he'd only ever admired from afar in the same night. It was that, or a Halloween miracle.

 

"We'll clean your car inside and out," John offered. "And... we won't have anymore of our Halloween candy until tomorrow after dinner."

 

"John, don't you think-"

 

"Shut up, Sherlock. It's the least we can do." Sherlock's expression seemed to emphatically disagree yet he still nodded, pouting. "Besides we get to stay over together. I want to practice my surgery skills and you said you'd peel off that scab so I can stop the bleeding."

 

"Fine," Sherlock sighed. "I only wish there was a microscope here so I could look at it after."

 

"Miss Lestrade has some lab equipment. She probably has one." Sherlock's pale eyes went even brighter. Apparently they took the teenager's silence and Greg's disgusted expression as meaning their terms were acceptable and turned slowly to go fetch John's overnight case. Another remarkable thing. John had gotten Sherlock to do what only a harsh look or word from Mummy could. He got him to slow down.

 

"Why didn't you say?"

 

"Because I knew you'd want to get into it without permission and it's somewhere private. I'm not an idiot, you know." 

 

"Yes you are. Practically everyone is."

 

" _You're_  the idiot!" Sherlock was exaggerating how offended he was at this prospect.

 

"How am  _I_  the idiot?"

 

"I don't know. But you said if you called me one I got to call you one back."

 

"Oh... yeah..."

 

"Besides, you got the experiment wrong."

 

"Lots of scientists get things wrong. That's  _how_  you discover things. Penicillin was discovered in mold."

 

"Ugh. I'm glad I'm allergic to it then." 

 

The rest of the conversation was lost as soon as Greg took his hand.

 

"Show you my room then?"

 

"Alright." With a sweet peck on the lips and another promise of no pressure, Mycroft let himself be lead up the stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
